There are some mornings where the weight of the day hits before my feet even touch the floor. The sun might be streaming through the blinds, the house still quiet for a few golden moments—but inside, there’s just this heaviness. A fog. A hollow ache that whispers, You’re already failing today.
This is depression. And this is motherhood.
It’s the silent tug-of-war between who I am and who I feel I should be. I’m a mum—I’m supposed to be strong, present, patient. I’m supposed to cherish every moment, soak in the chaos, love unconditionally and endlessly. And I do love. Deeply. Fiercely. But some days, the love feels buried under layers of guilt, exhaustion, and shame.
Depression doesn’t care if your children are beautiful.
It doesn’t care if you have a supportive partner or if your Instagram feed is full of smiling selfies and soft-focus family photos. It doesn’t care if yesterday was good. It doesn’t care that you want to be happy. Sometimes, it just is—a shadow that moves in uninvited and overstays its welcome.
And what makes it harder is the silence.
Because we don’t talk about this enough.
We don’t talk enough about the mums who cry in the bathroom while Netflix plays in the background. About the ones who feel numb while packing school lunches, who lie awake at night wondering if their children would be better off with a different version of them. One who laughs more. One who doesn’t feel like they’re constantly treading water.
The guilt is a beast.
Guilt for not being the “fun mum” today. Guilt for snapping. For needing space. For not feeling grateful every second of the day for something that others would give everything to have.
But here’s the truth I’ve had to claw my way toward:
You can love your children and still find motherhood unbearably hard.
You can be grateful and still feel broken.
You can be a good mum and still have depression.
I wish I could say I’ve figured it all out. I haven’t. But here’s what I do know:
- Asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s the bravest kind of self-respect.
- Medication, therapy, rest—these are tools, not crutches.
- Saying “I’m not okay” out loud takes courage. And saying it doesn’t make you less of a mum. It makes you human.
- Your children don’t need a perfect mum. They need a real one. One who shows up—even if it’s messy. Even if it’s in tears. Even if it’s just to say, “Mummy’s having a hard day.”
If you’re reading this and you feel seen, I want you to know you’re not alone. Depression lies. It tells you you’re failing. That your kids will remember the worst parts. But here’s what I believe: our kids don’t need perfection. They need love. They need presence. They need honesty. And yes, sometimes they need to see what strength looks like in real life—not the polished kind, but the shaky, real, gritty kind.
To the mum struggling in silence: I see you.
To the mum smiling through tears: I see you.
To the mum surviving, one tiny step at a time: I see you.
You are not broken. You are not alone. And you are enough—even on the days you don’t feel like it.
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